The Stranger Within

Cover of "The Outsider (Penguin Modern Cl...

Cover of The Outsider (Penguin Modern Classics)

(This is the same assignment as my previous post, but this is for English A1. The book which this text is based on is The Stranger by Albert Camus. I chose to write a descriptive passage from the perspective of Raymond. The first passage is a scene, were Raymond tells Meursault about his problem with his unfaithful lover, written in with the thoughts of Raymond himself. The second passage is stream of consciousness during Meursault’s execution.)

Passage One:

I just met Meursault in the stairs again. He is an interesting fella, walking around in this little town, silent and mysterious. I have to actually really drag his attention to me to make myself look interesting enough. He is a really smart guy too. That’s why I asked him in for some sausage and wine at my place. I needed his brain for a little favor. He wouldn’t mind.

My hand started to hurt again. As I wrapped it with some bandage I found, he asked what I’d done to it. “I’d been in a fight with some guy who was trying to start trouble,” I tried to say casually. Somehow, he was quite good at leading the conversation the right way. I told him the story of the guy who got his lesson, and tried to slip in some hints toward him, saying I needed his help about something. I don’t even know why I try. These social codes weren’t his strongest point. It had to be asked straight out. Not that he would mind, he never cared for those sorts of things. As I finished my story I continued to the real thing. “As a matter of fact, Meursault, I could actually need your advice on this whole business. You know, because you’re a man, and you know about things, you could help me out! And then we’d be pals, of course.” I assumed he was at least a little normal, not too much of a freak. He had gotten Marie but she wasn’t a beauty queen. I had stopped talking a while ago, but it was still silent. I asked if he actually wanted to be pals. He seemed to be thinking. That was a good sign. He was considering it. “It is fine with me,” he said shortly after. I had him.

The only matter now was how to make him do it correctly. Meursault isn’t the man to question too much, just enough to get the little picture he needed. I liked that about him. Nothing complicated. He followed directions, but wasn’t easy to guide. Other people would have fled when I started talking about how I punished my cheating woman. Meursault, on the other hand, listened until I was finished. Nervous and soar after all the talking, I asked for his opinion on the whole thing. He said something that told me he wasn’t very interested. I had to keep this going. He couldn’t tell if she was cheating on me, or what to do, but did agree that she needed to be punished. Good, now that I had made him come to that conclusion it was simple to ask him. I told him about my brilliant idea and the complications with it. I needed his mind quickly. I couldn’t in a million years write the way that would punish her enough. He was silent after I requested the favor. “Would there be any problems if you did it right now?” I asked, and got a short “no” in reply. He wrote quickly, with nice handwriting. To check that it was OK, he read it out loud for me. He looked at me for a long while. It got very awkward, and I realized he was done. He had to read it again. I was still gone, but I was sure it worked. He wouldn’t have tried to fool me anyway. I told him good night, sure that we were pals.

Passage Two:

Meursault had killed that Arab. That’s odd. I thought he was rational. Maybe he’s faulty. The trial failed him. He shouldn’t have shot that Arab. He’s in prison now. I wonder how it’s like in there. Maybe he’ll like it. It can’t be much difference. He wouldn’t care either. He never cares. He shouldn’t have shot that Arab. He’s odd. Did he enjoy it? Maybe he is that type of man, a born killer. But why would he care? Nothing pisses him off. I’ve never seen him angry. Did the Arab make him angry? He shouldn’t have killed him. Meursault’s going to die. The trial failed him. Execution in public, of all things. He looks odd up there. I can barely see him. He doesn’t mind being up there. Why was he with that Arab? Right, that thing. He shouldn’t have killed him. Everyone’s shouting, I can’t hear what the man is saying. Meursault found me. He looks odd up there. Like he doesn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind thought. Why is he looking at me that way? He doesn’t belong. The other man stopped talking. Something’s going to happen. Right, the execution. Meursault wouldn’t mind. It’s not like he wanted to live. Well, it’s not like he tried to die. Or maybe that’s why he killed that Arab? He was looking for someone to kill. I was his pal, though. He couldn’t kill me. What’s that sound? Oh, the blade wasn’t sharp enough. Too bad. He’s dead now, isn’t he? It’s just hanging there, slowly ripping off. He was a good man. He cared. I’m sure he had his reasons for killing that Arab. It probably was for the best. He looked at me as the head fell into the basket. He looked odd up there. Without a head. Everyone else has got heads. He doesn’t belong. I’m sure he’s somewhere nice. I was a good man, Meursault.

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Galskap i Brev

(As I am currently doing the IB Diploma I have to write a creative piece. This is what I write for Norwegian A1.
The text is based on the novel Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. It is a letter from the madwoman in the attic at Thornfield Hall, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, to a fictional character I have named Maurita. She is a close friend of Bertha, which is why she can write to her about the following.) 

Kjære Maurita,

Jeg skriver til deg i tillit om at disse ord vil forbli mellom oss to alene. Du har vært min gode venninne i mange år, og jeg drister meg til å si at du kjenner meg meget godt. Ta derfor disse ord i betraktning og tenk på dem vel før du skriver tilbake. Min lit til deg er stor og jeg stoler på at dine ord vil hjelpe meg videre i denne vanskelige situasjonen. Jeg beklager for en slik måte å skrive på, men jeg må ta mine foranstaltninger. Det mine neste ord kommer til å ytre, omhandler en sak av ytterst ømfintlighet.

Du husker muligens min kjære mor, Antoinetta, eller hørt snakk som omhandler hennes nåværende natur? Du er muligens ikke overrasket når jeg forteller at min mor ikke befinner seg hos sin døende søster, slik vi har forsøkt å fremstille det. Jeg har hørt ryktene i gatene, det er merkverdig hvordan folks fantasi spinner for å lage en mer spennende versjon. Disse eldre damene som ikke lenger har sine unge sønner å ta vare på, har vel ikke noe bedre å ta seg til. Du får beklage min uforskammethet, men i så mange år har jeg villet utrykke meg om denne sak. Jeg håper du forstår at jeg aldri ville ført deg bak lyset om jeg absolutt ikke hadde noe annet valg. Kjære venninne, du må tro meg når jeg skriver disse ord, så inderlig jeg hadde lyst til å skrive til deg før denne stund, men jeg har blitt forbudt av min velvitende fader. Hvert forsøk har blitt oppdaget og straffet med sterkere midler for hver gang. Temperamentet hans har blitt verre og jeg turte ikke lenger å fortsette disse forsøk. Jeg antar at du har gjettet at dette ikke er en vanlig situasjon, og du har meget rett. Slik det har seg nå føler jeg en plikt til å skrive til deg. Du får beklage min hast, det er mye å fortelle.

Tilbake til min barmhjertige mor. For flere år siden hadde sinnet forlatt henne og hun var ikke til å kjenne igjen. Plutselige angrep anslo synlig uten grunn. Alle gjenstander i hvert rom hun befant seg i ble et våpen i hennes hender. Vi fryktet for våre liv. Det var grusomt, Maurita. Kvinnen som banket i veggene var ikke lenger min kjære mor, og vi fant ingen midler for å bringe henne tilbake. Det gikk måneder før min elskverdige far til slutt stoppet å gå opp til rommet og snakke med henne. Det var intet håp for å hente tilbake sinnet hennes. I løpet av denne tid hadde naboene våres begynt å lytte og spionere på oss. Sannheten om kjære Antoinetta kunne ikke slippe utenfor vårt hus. Av den grunn fant vi det nødvendig å sende henne av gårde. Forklaringen vi satte ut var ikke helt uten sannhet. Fars hustru er hos sin søster, men ingen av dem er døende. Tiden etter hennes avreise var meget rolig i handling, men det var demoner i luften. Du må tro meg når jeg sier dette, Maurita, jeg har tenkt på den tid før kvinnens sinn forlot henne. Stillheten her har gitt meg mye tid til å tenke og jeg er sikker i min sak. Det hele startet med en liten vane min mor hadde lagt til seg. Hun knøt knuter. Hver filt, hver tråd og hver løse snor ble knyttet med utallige knuter. Senere stoppet hun, og byttet over til noe annet. Middagene ble senere enn vanlig, og en ettermiddag hvor jeg studerte henne, la jeg merke til at hun brukte meget lang tid på kuttingen av grønnsakene. Hun studerte knivene, Maurita. Gåsehuden fikk meg ut av kjøkkenet raskt, men jeg glemmer det aldri. Det eskalerte, og endte, som du nå vet, i at hun ikke er gjenkjennbar. Jeg ber deg å ikke miste troen på meg når du leser mine neste ord. Jeg har nylig funnet en stor interesse i kniver. Knutene har jeg alltid holdt på meg, min mor ble irritert hver gang hun så det, det var slik jeg oppdaget at hun også hadde begynt. Hun hadde sluttet å klage. Tilbake til temaet, kniver er fantastiske. Det er noe ved deres skarphet som kutter en i synet bare ved å studere det. Glansen av en velpolert kniv er uvurderlig, Maurita! Nei, hør på meg selv! Vær så snill, å tro meg kjæreste venninne. Jeg tør ikke tenke på hvordan jeg utvikler meg. Redselen øker for hver dag. Far aner lite håp for meg. Kun noen få måneder til det ikke lenger er jeg som vandrer i denne kroppen. Du kan si jeg er meget heldig som oppdaget det så tidlig. Min gode far mener å ha kommet med en løsning. Det er visst en rik omreisende i området, en viss Mr. Rochester fra England. Han er meget ung, og far snakker så lovende om et ekteskap. Tror du han vil akseptere meg? Jeg er klar over hva resten av landsbyen vil ha det til, at jeg er Jamaicas vakreste, men han har vel sett mange nydelig kvinner gjennom sine reiser.

Det er her jeg trenger hjelp av dem, kjære Maurita. Det er ikke riktig. Slik en fin mann burde ikke ende opp med en kropp uten sinn. Tenk om jeg ender opp lik min mor, jeg kommer til å drepe noen! Jeg kan ikke ha det i hodet, vite at jeg er farlig for andre. Vær så snill, min vakreste venninne, jeg ber av dem, hva har du for råd? Kan jeg tillate at den omreisende blir lurt slik i stry? Burde jeg bli hos ham? Jeg orker ikke tenke på det min kropp kan gjøre når sinnet mitt har forlatt meg! Maurita, svar raskt! Tiden renner ut og jeg er redd.

Din kjæreste venninne,

Bertha Antoinetta Mason.

Children of Divorce

There are many of us, the children born in a divorce. Some might call us lucky; we never had to go through the dividing of a once whole family. We wouldn’t have to wonder what we did wrong, what we said, or what we could have done to make it all work. Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family. Never had a moment of everything being at its proper place. The dream will never be complete.
We have it better because when someone asks for your dad, you don’t know who to refer to. What a benefit we have, knowing all transportation systems between the parents’ houses by heart. How fortunate we are, being born with the features they hate about each other. We are their constant nightmare, reminding them of their former love, their past. They cannot escape us. We are the reminder they never wished for. Do not mind us, the kids who will never know who they are because their personality traits are despised by both sides. We cannot grow as we have no ground to stand on. Where do we come from; who do we belong to? These are questions that haunt us on the midst of the day. We have no place to escape, no one to turn to.
Ask a one of us to define Good and Evil. We will answer vaguely as we know that those who intentionally hurt other people are evil, but we don’t want to think of our parents as evil. There are no right or wrong, yet there are always two sides of a story, hard to separate from the truth. Excuses are vivid, we live among people who want to protect us, but drag us further down the rabbit hole.

Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family.


Source: http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvas8uoZp71r6qljho1_500.jpg

Heart Blood

A little river’s formed. Slides downwards, slowly. One must wonder, is it time itself? There was no rush, clearly. What if I stopped it? If I wiped the river dry and hindered any more to come. Would the Earth stop spinning? Would time go backwards until it flowed once again? I let it stream, today is not the day for experiments. You are awfully pale. Did my tears bleach your strong chest? I look at your chest. Once I could hear its movements. The purple shirt of sex would stretch and I could hear the buttons scream. I can see time come. Feeling your stomach with my check I open my mouth. I shall eat the flow of time. Put an end to all that is and hinder what is yet to come. It is no longer worth it. The future is empty. Time brings no good. It had a taste of metal, drilling into my tongue. Leaving marks. Burning.

Time was not unusual to me. Many times I had tried to reverse it, drink it back into my body. It would never help. But I thought. Maybe. Maybe just this time? The miracle I was praying for. I am petrified. Scared to death, but not my death. It has yet to come. Yours, on the contrary, came to early. I’m not ready for it…

Rehab

She lies on the floor with the kitchen knife in the back. The radio pours out Rehab by Rihanna, a rather unusual song for that channel to broadcast. When she had turned it on I was expecting soothing tones from a calm melody. I had never really liked pop-music.
I had managed to spill on the expensive carpet she had bought. Obsessively she had managed to not get any stains on it. Oh well, too bad it had to be ruined in this situation. I might have kept it. Though, it’s not me to blame. We were going to get married. She and I. We were meant for each other, a perfect item, but she wanted to test fate. Thought she had met someone better, someone perfect. Bullshit! I was the only one for her. The only one that could ever love her this deeply, cherish her as she was rare. Only I. He stole her from me, that bastard. Blindly she would have followed her, into his neat little web. It was a trap, why wouldn’t she see? She was into it, that little whore. Wanted to be fooled, taken away from this paradise and into the devil’s layer. Away from me. One does not simply walk away from me. It took her a while until she understood, but by the time I saw it in her eyes they turned to glass. The time was up. Contrary to that bitch, I had learned.

I look at her. The blue-green eyes had turned pale a while ago. The hands were still reaching for me, or where I used to be. The knife had long ago found its place. Forced through her back and into the unfaithful heart. The skin on her chin had turned to sandpaper. Something cold ran down my spine, the goose bumps spread like a deadly sickness. Next to her ear was an insignificant tear, striving to reach her valuable carpet. I swiped my finger over it, stood up and walk over her body, across the floor and open the door. My back turns against the hall and I take a last look into the small living room. The memories flow back and my eyes start to burn. Facing the other way I walk away, humming the tones of Rehab by Rihanna.

Monster

The grin on that slim face gives me goose bumps. How could they not see, what could possibly cover they eyes with such a thick layer that they even came closer to the wolf? The growl of the evil heart roared in the shivering air. Change was coming, but it wasn’t headed in the right direction. The devils were winning and people were celebrating their presence. Naïve they believed they had found the good soul, the perfect person. Oh how they were fooled. Clinging hard to the thin arms and bones of the little creature, smiling along with wide mouth of a liar, they all truly had faith in what the monster could do. But what they didn’t realize was what they were about to do. Feeding it with love and compassion, giving it the warmth it didn’t deserve. It was getting stronger, got connections and pulled the tiny strings in its spider web. As a snake she would eat them after she was done. There was nothing that could stop her, the people believe.  Their eyes were gone and the hope had vanished and was replaced by the evil of a liar. A fake that spread nothing but pain and sorrow to the hearts of the true. Creatures like her had no goals, had nothing to aim for, only destruction. The future would never come would these things continue to roam the streets of the people. They had to be disposed. We will dispose of her.
No one will believe the tales of the truth. The words cut through their simple brains and make them function, make their eyes open, but they don’t want that. They just want to sit and chat, have fun and live in their tiny little words, thinking everything is fine and all they do is right. How could they possibly have acted wrong? All they did was feeding the monster of evil. How could they possibly have done anything that could lead to the end of the world, the end of all good? All they did was believe the lies, breeding a being worse than all others, spreading the hatred and pain. There is nothing wrong in being so stupid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Source: http://www.123rf.com/photo_7820097_halloween-surprise–evil-man-behind-innocent-naive-girl.html

Picnic with Death

*A translation of the previous post in addition to some editing*

It had been a while since she last walked in the park. Many good memories came to life here, and one very traumatizing. Monica walked along the slim path. A thousand times she had set her feet here, but it all seemed so new. As if everything had changed afterwards. Yet there were things that had kept themselves as usual. The packed plum-tree hung over the shiny lake. The burden must have been great for the simple branches. No one ever picked off any of its fruits, no matter how delicious they looked. No one offered to lift the burden.
               
              Monica had a bright future. Last year on High School and soon University. She was going to major in art. The schools she looked at didn’t require a high standard of grades, and she had what it took to get in. For her friends there was another story. Her best friend since middle school, Alice, had no future.
               It was rare to see her at school and the few hours she appeared went quickly until she got bored again. Then she would leave. Just like that. How easy it looked. To walk away from the things that bore you. But she wasn’t able to walk away from everything. She was in trouble, massive trouble. By the end of eighth grade she was regularly sticking needles through the once soft skin. Monica never knew what was in them. Neither did Alice. Lately it looked like heroin; it gave the great kick as they called it. Monica had stayed through the other types of kicks Alice had searched for, she was not going to stop now. She didn’t want to lose her.
               Monica stayed clear of the needles, she saw what it did to her friend. Her stories of how the world was so much better with the new vision never convinced her. Neither did Monica’s endless trials of describing what Alice really was doing to herself, where she was headed. None of them were convinced any more than they had started off with. Alice had stopped talking about her belief in her little magic liquid and Monica stopped describing the horrible scenarios that taunted her head. The images didn’t get better after she watched a movie with her class on drugs. In the beginning she tried to sleep, not let the moving pictures get in her. She didn’t need it. She knew. The volume was loud and the movie distracting. Unwillingly her eyes caught the screen and got fixed. There was only one thought in her mind. Alice. Can’t. Die. When it finished the borrowed it and went to Alice’s place.
               The credits came, and went. Not a sound could be heard in the messy cottage she called a room. The red eyes said everything, she was petrified. The future had never been further than the next dose.
               They never went to the rehab center. She was going to make it, with Monica. Together. She was getting better. From endless needles a day she managed to get it down to two at most. “It all beings in the small steps” she had said with a crocked smile on her face while the needle pressed through her skin. She was moving forward, steadily, to a certain point. The addiction forced her down, not even her friend could help her with this part.
                There were days were Alice would shine like the sun. One of those days she went to Monica’s home with a stuffed little basket. “Picnic?” Her happiness surrounded her with miles radius. It was impossible to say no.
               They ended up under a magnificent apple tree in the park. The spring had arrived and the fruits hung over their heads, tempting their hunger for every look. While the girls got themselves settled two of the apples disappeared and just a stone’s throw away one could see a pair of apple cores sun bathing.
                Alice was no master chef, but the chicken sandwiches went down quickly. When all the food was gone and the sodas with it the park went quite. The glittering lake laid silently and waited. The trees swayed with the wind, letting it play with their leaves. The juicy grass made their blanket wet. The silence was interrupted by the sound of a searching hand in the basket. Monica didn’t need to look to know what her companion was striving after. The kick. “Do you have to? We’re having such a good time. You’re so happy! Can’t you feel the peace?” Monica’s voice was pathetic. There was no force, no point. She was clearly ignored. Alice found what she was looking for, and grinned with desperate lust. Monica didn’t turn. The whole sequence had started to disgust her. The tip digging itself into the vein, the moan when the liquid streamed into her blood. There had always been a little problem with Alice’s needle. It squeaked while it was forcing the liquid inside her. This time it was longer than usual. Panic flew through Monica’s limbs, she had to turn.
                She looked awful. With her back against the tree she looked insignificantly small. Small and pale. The golden glow that shone on her only an hour ago had vanished and replaced by a grey and blue tint. Now that the smile was gone the bags under the eyes screamed in vain, made her eyeballs disappear. They were looking, faintly, gazing at the still water, absorbing the sun. The mouth was slightly open letting out the last air of the small lungs escape. Her hands had slid of her lap and touched the humid grass, not feeling the coldness of the drops. The nails had clearly been used to rip apart the many things she had encountered. Quicker than they should have as they still hadn’t recovered fully. The whole body had become a doll. A giant, lifeless doll that had been thrown in the park at random.  She couldn’t touch her. Not this time. Watching as the life had drained out of her, listening to her last breath flowing through the air was more than enough.
             Monica followed the stiff eyes’ gaze over the water. It was really a beautiful day. She deserved to die on such a day. The sun hadn’t gone far down from the sky, but there was almost no one in the park. It felt like the world understood, it felt that Death was near. Wandering among the living bodies, collecting souls. He had been here, picking up what was left of her best friend. The air was still chill, He hadn’t left yet. There was still one more soul to get.
         Monica wasn’t sure she was ready. She could feel Him coming. His lust for the drive that kept her going. She could sense it leaving, but she had to give it up. The wind swirled around him, making the trees lean away, they had too much to live for. What did she have? Alice’s glorious liquid was gone. She might have suspected Monica’s actions.  She didn’t want anyone else to experience its devilish work. Monica’s eyes looked around and fixed your eyes on the shining water. Flat and silently reflecting the waves from the sun. It was a nice day to die.
 

The water had gone calm once again. The ripples were vanished and the sound of the last bubbles had passed on. The lake didn’t shine any longer. Grey, huge clouds had covered up the sun. Death had passed, satisfied. A nice day to collect days, He thought while wandering out of the park to other destinations.


Source: http://www.waynebrittlephotography.com/photo_4328495.html